


quiero regalarte las estrellas (o la luna entera)

by iscoalarcon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Crack Pairing, I have no excuses, M/M, i dont even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:12:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3193139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iscoalarcon/pseuds/iscoalarcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco was banking on Toni and Sami helping him out, but then again Sami might be leaving the team and Toni, well, Toni was Toni (a good guy, really, they got along fine, but they weren’t best friends or anything). So Marco had accepted his fate of being the New German Player Who Doesn’t Know How To Speak Spanish and rolled up to his first practice as a member of los blancos with a thousand butterflies in his stomach and a German-to-Spanish dictionary in his bag.</p>
            </blockquote>





	quiero regalarte las estrellas (o la luna entera)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know where this came from, honestly. i mostly blame tara.
> 
> title taken from the song hu hu hu by natalia lafourcade
> 
> (disclaimer: i don't own real madrid or any of their players or marco reus and idk if it snows in madrid but for the purposes of this fic, let's pretend it does)
> 
> (also i used google translate for the like 3 actual spanish words in this fic so if they're wrong please tell me)

When Marco arrived in Madrid, he knew exactly 20 words of Spanish.

He could say _hello, how are you, thank you, where is the bathroom?, fuck off, yes, no_ , and _goodbye_. And yeah, now that he thought about it, he realized that he only knew 15 words in Spanish and yeah, he’s pathetic because how is he supposed to play for Real Madrid when he can’t even communicate with his teammates?

Marco was banking on Toni and Sami helping him out, but then again Sami might be leaving the team and Toni, well, Toni was  _Toni_  (a good guy, really, they got along fine, but they weren’t best friends or anything). So Marco had accepted his fate of being the New German Player Who Doesn’t Know How To Speak Spanish and rolled up to his first practice as a member of _los blancos_  with a thousand butterflies in his stomach and a German-to-Spanish dictionary in his bag.

Ancelotti greeted him at the gates of the Bernabéu and Marco thought that he was going to throw up. He liked Ancelotti a lot, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t nerve-wracking to meet his coach in such a non-official (yet official) setting. 

Ancelotti dropped him off in front of the dressing room and Marco could hear the team speaking loudly in Spanish, the constant stream of communication only interrupted by hearty bursts of laughter. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

At first, no one paid him much attention. Then, as soon as one of the players caught sight of him (Varane, maybe?) and called attention to him, the whole squad turned and looked. Marco smiled nervously and gripped his bag so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Reus!” Sergio Ramos bounded up to him, a cheeky smile on his face. “How are you?” the older man continued on speaking rapidly in Spanish but Marco had no clue what he was saying. He kept a neutral smile on his face, nodding occasionally, and saying  _si_  whenever Sergio paused.

Behind Sergio, Marco heard a vaguely familiar laugh and almost collapsed in relief as Toni came into view.

“Hey Marco,” he greeted him in German with a quick slap on the shoulder. “do you understand a word Sergio’s saying to you?”

Marco shook his head sheepishly. Toni laughed again and said something to Sergio who also laughed and then turned away, going back to Iker Casillas.

“Don’t worry, you'll catch on pretty quick. It’s not that hard. I’ll help you out.” Toni slung his arm around Marco’s shoulder and Marco could kiss him.

"Thank you so much.”

"It’s no problem. Let me show you your locker. It’s right between mine and Isco’s.”

Toni steered them to their lockers and Marco tried not to startle at the sight of his last name next to the Real Madrid crest but, well, it was different, is all.

“Welcome home,” Toni said as he tugged on his practice kit. “You’re officially a white.”

Marco smiled.

-:-

A couple of weeks later, Marco knew about 50 words in Spanish. Most of these were curse words, but a few were actually useful such as  _I’m open!_  and  _pass the ball!_

Marco no longer felt like an outsider and thanked god every night for Toni fucking Kroos and his saint-like demeanor and patience. He was also getting along well with Marcelo, James, and Isco, even if they could barely understand each other. Toni was always there to translate and you really didn’t need words when playing football.

One day before training, Isco sauntered over and nudged Marco’s shoulder.

“You need to learn more Spanish, brother.” he said, his deep eyes twinkling and a teasing smile on his lips.

Marco shrugged. “I don’t have time to, ah fuck- Toni, how do you say  _to take lessons_  in Spanish?”

Toni translated with an amused grin and Isco laughed and said something back.

“He said he’ll teach you.” Toni translated again and Marco smiled at Isco, nodding his head and shrugging in agreement.

Isco pulled Marco out onto the pitch after they were finished changing and pointed to the ground.

“ _El césped_.” he said slowly, dragging out each syllable, his eyes comically wide.

“ _El césped_.” Marco repeated, mocking Isco’s overexaggerated pronunciation.

Isco smiled.

“Me llamo Isco,” he pointed to himself. "Tu nombre Marco.”

“Si.” Marco said sarcastically.

“Muy bien!” Isco clapped his hands and laughed, throwing his arm around Marco’s shoulder and tugging him along.

Marco smiled and the weight of Isco’s arm wrapped around him felt normal and nice, almost like home.

-:-

A couple months after Marco arrived in Madrid, a couple months after he scored his first goal for  _los blancos_  (thanks to a beautiful cross from James), a couple months after he started calling Spain his home, a couple months after he considered Isco and James and Marcelo and maybe even the great Cristiano Ronaldo to be his best friends, Marco was virtually fluent in Spanish.

It had taken long days of Isco and James helping him out (and laughing when he mispronounced something) and encouraging speeches from Marcelo (that he had only half understood), but he had done it. He was officially bilingual or whatever, and could confidently order his own takeout from the local restaurant.

Things were much easier now that he knew what everyone was saying.

“Marcinho!” Sergio cried out as Marco entered the locker room. “My favorite little llama! How are you on this fine day?”   

Marco grinned at his vice-captain, noting that his arm was possessively thrown around Iker, like always.

"I’m outstanding! Better now that I see your beautiful face.” he ignored Iker’s not-so-subtle-as-he-thought-it-was-glare and bounced over to where Isco was standing.

Marco jumped up on Isco’s back, surprising him. Isco stumbled and fell over, taking Marco with him. The two landed in a heap of tangled limbs and bumped heads. Isco let out a string of curse words and Marco groaned.

“Marco! Isco! Are you guys ok?” James hurried over, the rest of the team not far behind. Worried faces invaded Marco’s vision. He let out another groan and rubbed his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Isco waved off everyone’s concerns. “Just a bump, is all.”

James shot them another worried glance before shrugging and heading back over to Cris. The crowd dissipated, leaving the two to sort themselves out. Marco was still on top of Isco and he didn't plan on getting off any time soon.

“Get off of me, you fat fuck.” Isco groaned.

Marco didn’t move. “You love when i’m on top.” he crooned, shoving his face into Isco’s neck. Isco smelled good. Like, really good. Marco wondered what kind of aftershave he used and where he could get it.

Isco choked and Marco could feel the younger man’s face getting bright red.

“Marco! Have some mercy on Isco. He looks like he’s dying.” Iker called out from across the room.

Marco rolled off of his friend slowly, smirking as he did so. (He was a little shit and knew it and embraced it.)

Isco coughed once and sat up, looking anywhere but Marco, his face still a deep shade of red.

Marco smiled. “Oh baby, you look adorable when you blush.”

Marco swore Isco stopped breathing and all the blood in his poor Spanish body went straight to his face.

Unable to utter a reply, Isco just slapped Marco.

“Rude!” Marco gasped in fake shock. Isco rolled his eyes, struggling to get his blush under control.

“You’re such a fucker.” Isco muttered.

Marco smiled again. “But I’m your fucker.”

Isco blushed again and Marco grinned wider (he loved it when Isco blushed).

-:-

“Something has to be done about them.” Marco sat down unceremoniously between Marcelo and Isco at the breakfast table.

“What?” Isco mumbled sleepily, his eyes barely open.

“ _Them_.” Marco pointed to where James was resting his head on Cris’ shoulder, eyes closed, as the older man sipped his orange juice.

"What are you thinking?” Marcelo leaned in, a mischievous glint to his eyes.

“Well, we need to open their eyes and show them that they’re both madly in love with each other. So, I was thinking that we should lock them in a closet or something.” Marco said, taking a bite of his croissant.

“That’s so lame and predictable, though.” Isco said, his eyes more alert and awake once he realized what the other two were discussing. “We need something creative and fail-proof.”

The trio grinned at each other and Marco pretended not to notice how nice Isco's smile was and how cute he looked with his hair ruffled from sleep.

-:-

“It wasn’t me!” Marco threw his hands up immediately as he saw Iker and Sergio approach him, Isco, and Marcelo during training a couple of days later. “It was all Isco’s idea!”

“Hey!” Isco glared at the German. “You brought it up in the first place!”

Marcelo stayed quiet, trying to hide behind the other two boys.

Iker’s glare was cold, but tired, as if he had given up already. Sergio was trying to hide his grin, but he was failing.

"So really, which one of you thought it would be a good idea to lock both Cris and James in the airplane bathroom, which is tiny, you know, and leave them there for two hours? James is claustrophobic and he had a panic attack and poor Cris was trying to calm him down in a space that’s barely big enough for a teenage girl, let alone two grown men. Whatever you hoped to accomplish, it sure as hell failed.” Marco could hear the disapproval in Iker’s voice.

“Well, I wouldn’t say it failed…” Isco trailed off, pointedly looking at Cris who had not left James’ side since The Incident, who was always touching the younger boy in some way, and at James, who melted into Cris’ touch.

Iker’s glare intensified.

Marco and Isco glanced at each other and at the same time they shouted, “It was Marcelo!” before sprinting away, giggling like a couple of preteens. They could hear Marcelo’s betrayed yelp and Marco knew that he wouldn’t have his life be any other way.

-:-

Marco had been in Madrid for over a year and a half now and with the team for over a season. He bled white and sang  _hala madrid y nada ma_ s like the American’s said their pledge of allegiance. He had won trophies, he had lost matches; he had laughed, he had cried; he was in love with the team and all they represented; he was maybe a little in love with Isco, too.

Marco wasn’t sappy, far from it, but he thought that maybe, if he had the artistic inclination, he could write a poem or some shit about how deep and thoughtful Isco’s eyes were or how warm his smile was or how his voice sounded like home. But Marco was a footballer, not a poet, so he didn’t (but he kind of wanted to).

-:-

It was December of Marco’s third year at Madrid and they were on break.

Isco had slept over at Marco’s the night before (and the night before) and they had plans to go last minute Christmas shopping later that day. Marco yawned and opened his eyes, glanced at the flashing 10:20 AM on his clock and groaned before he turned over and slapped Isco.

“Get up, you fat lump of lard.” Isco grunted and Marco smiled because he was always like this, always made the same noise, in the mornings.

(Isco had stopped sleeping on Marco’s couch long ago. After the fifth time he had stayed over, Marco had grabbed him and forcibly dumped him in his bed and then proceeded to climb in after him. Isco had stared at him, confused, before Marco rolled his eyes and said that he wouldn’t be the cause of Isco having a bad back and therefore unable to play because he had slept on Marco’s shitty couch one too many times. And that was that.)

Marco clambered out of bed and shuffled to his kitchen, putting on coffee. He yawned again and rubbed his hands over his eyes before he caught sight of something outside the window.

“Isco!” he yelled. “Isco!”

“What is it?” the younger boy stumbled in, eyes tired but alert.

“It’s snowing!” Marco crowed, pointing outside with a crooked grin on his face.

Isco sighed and slumped down into one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen table. “I thought you were being murdered or something.” he mumbled, his voice muffled by his arms as he laid his head in his hands.

“It’s snowing!” Marco repeated.

“I know. It snows every year. Sometimes twice a year. Now shut up and make me coffee.”

Marco complied, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like _It's snowing! It's snowing!_  under his breath over and over again.

Isco sighed. He knew what this meant.

"Just let me put on a coat and then we can go outside.” he said wearily and Marco cheered.

After the two had bundled up, they headed outside.

“I love snow.” Marco said, gathering some up in his gloved palm.

“I realized.” Isco said sarcastically.

Marco slowly grinned at the dark haired man and Isco also knew what this meant (but it was too late).

Marco’s snowball hit him directly in the face.

“Oh it’s on.” Isco ducked down and made a snowball, firing it directly at Marco’s groin.

Marco shrieked, Isco laughed, and oh, it was  _definitely_  on.

The two chased each other around Marco’s lawn before Marco finally caught up with Isco and tackled him to the ground.

They landed in a heap with Marco on top and Isco on the cold ground and Marco knew he should get up, but really, Isco looked so beautiful with the snowflakes delicately coating his dark lashes and the cold bringing out a faint blush in his cheeks and  _holy shit_  their faces were close but Marco couldn’t look away.

Neither of them were quite sure who leaned in first, but suddenly they were kissing and it felt like all those cheesy stories about fireworks and stars and coming home.

Isco pulled back first, short of breath, and framed Marco’s face with his hands.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly, searching the older boy’s face for any sign of discomfort.

Marco nodded and leaned in again and  _yeah_ , this was way more than okay.

**Author's Note:**

> and if marco does go to rm and him and isco become a Thing well. i called it.


End file.
